


Earth Verbatim

by backwardsbucket



Category: Earth Verbatim
Genre: Action, Dark Comedy, Explicit Language, Multi, Suggestive Themes, Supernatural Elements, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backwardsbucket/pseuds/backwardsbucket
Summary: Earth Verbatim is set in the fictional town of Rois Settle, Canada. It follows the intense and supernatural experiences of the protagonists Adoni and Casper, often resulting in disaster or the occasional wonder into a different dimension. Additional chapters have no set upload date. An original made by me.
Relationships: To be updated
Kudos: 1





	1. Talks with a Wendigo

"What brought you to this?"

Steady words offered up to the unstable, colorful eyes dull as lead, he tilting his head to take me in with the right of his face.

"The first to not beg for your life, or proclaim yourself too unworthy for an end. Since you have shocked the beast, I will answer your question."

His fur is thick as boar hide, matted into clumps along the lips. Antlers crooked and insidious as birch split in two from an electrical fire stagger to the sky. Two meters, I'd wager. He leans over me like a building does before the earthquake snaps the tethers to its foundation. The bones of the knee are visible, and are the same shade of luster-less white of his teeth.

"Like you, four centuries before. A young soul, still in the vessel of man. I rushed out to the forest every eve and broke the roots of trees and chased after animals' mothers. The freedom was delicious, but like all creatures with the curse of sentience, I crossed the threshold."

His voice sounded like the ugly buzz of cicadas and the chattering of wild foxes. When he suddenly stopped, I was jarred by silence of the forest. It still shuddered with life, yes, but it simply didn't sound so rich anymore. I feel a kiss of snowfall to the tip of my nose.

"Threshold of…? The world and the supernatural?"

I believe he laughed.

"The two are not mutually exclusive. But, yes."

The words shiver in his throat, a rattlesnake warning. This is the end of our conversation, the bell for supper has rung.

I step in tow with him, he opens his jaw wide enough for the whole of me, and I set him on fire. I struck the match as soon as he smiled. It connects with the blade of his shoulder and catches across his beautiful coat. Akin to a thicket struck by lightning. He turns to put it out with a meaty claw and I push into his torso with both hands. The strike was not intended to offset his balance (I do not weigh enough to do so), but rather to feel for the core. I touch it, his overexaggerated ribs just scarcely giving way to the concave center of his body, like the curtains of a dramatic stage flaring out towards the bottom.   
I pull back his coat and see his shriveled human heart, black as burned soil and thumping shallowly like a dying rabbit's fretful foot. I brace myself and pull it out. I cry as it burns through my wool mittens and shreds my palms but I'd rather die than let go. I throw it to the ground and it turns to ash as soon as it touches the bare dirt of the trail. A gust just shy of wind erupts from the now animal, its legs giving out and his bones twisting themselves into a new spine. A few moments of rearranging the decor, and the wendigo has become nothing less than a stag. Old and marred. It's fur has grayed around its thoughtless eyes, and it is terribly shabby looking. It sways as he walks, and I know it will die soon. Either by old age, or a bored predator.   
I spit into my hands, chant a prayer in tongues, and walk the path to where I had come from.


	2. Anticlimatic Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adoni goes home.

My plain bike still leans obediently against the supposedly electric fence, its navy paint making only visible if you knew what you were looking for. When I tried it for the first time two Christmases ago, up and down the dirt trenches from a failed construction site, the name "Turtle" came to me like a bird crashing into a glass door. I had found it so funny I fell off and skinned my knee good against a particularly gruff rock. 

"What's so funny?" Maisy had called out to me from atop a dirt hill. Being eight and also a girl barred her from riding her own bike with us. 

"I want to name my bike Turtle!" I yelled back, still picking rocks from my scratch. My brother Mason hit his break and swooped to my side to assess the damage.

"Why?" 

"Because! It doesn't make any sense at all!" Then I laughed so hard I knocked my knee straight into my brother's nose. 

Indulgent to that memory, I pat the seat of my bike. "Good boy, Turtle." 

I throw my leg over the side and cruise out the gate, it's elaborately designed lock long busted from rowdy teens. When the first disappearance of a person pointed to the involvement of our forest, the government made a big show of "quarantining" the area and forbidding anyone but designated officials from entering. Towering fences, a sullen watchtower, sirens, tripwires, the whole shebang. Per usual, the government had underestimated the willpower of the youth. 

The watchtower isn't even in use until 8 p.m., anyways. 

I reach the road and pass the all-too-familiar emeralds of pine trees that flock our rural streets on all sides. I make sure to wave at the billboard standing proud like a battered war vet, to the obvious displeasure of the town big-shot lawyer. His oversized head looks down at me with blazen disgust as cheerful red font asks me to consult him for legal advice.  
Before long, I arrive at the steep of the Mitchilian Mountain, which is really just twenty feet high clump of ground absently set down and forgotten about by god. Tim, our mayor, wanted it removed so we could connect the two neighborhoods around it, but it was a pointless dream. My grandpa's veins still bulge with unadulterated rage when Tim's voice comes over the radio. So, two neighborhoods flank us, set apart by a minute's walk. My family is an eyesore in multiple ways. Darwin, my childhood friend turned pretentious smartass, spots me and cups his hands to his mouth.

"Got your ass beat again huh? Stay out of the fucking park!"

"Yelling at me isn't gonna get Adeline to suck your dick, cutie!" 

An excellent blow against him, because Tim's daughter uses the word as much as she gets spray tanned.   
A few more profanities spew from my dearest heckler, and I neatly tie up the conversation with a middle finger. I turn my attention back to the mountain and chug my way to the gate.

My family's land (see: nasty dirt lot), surrounded by a dented wooden fence is lovingly nicknamed the Michelin Cult. Three trailers scatter along the just over a mile of surface, with an ominous looking cabin in the back. With a firepit and scattered red folding chairs in the center, the place looks like a haunted summer camp. My deadbeat cousins occupy the one to the left, probably shooting tar heroin and chugging discounted beer while their box tv relays a local baseball game. To the left is for relatives I don't really know a word for, just been with the Mitchilians for so long none of us can tell the difference. They're indigenous, and a family of four. The middle trailer is my aunt, uncle, and Maisy's. My aunt also has like, 50 dogs, that go apeshit whenever so much as a door is closed. I live in the cabin with mom, dad, my brother, and grandparents. This land has been ours for about two hundred and fifty years.   
Enough background information. I swing the door open and throw my backpack to the side, inciting a chorus of barks from my Aunt's trailer. Dad's in the kitchen with Mason, making some sort of onion soup in a fat pot. Mom is hunched over newspaper articles on the dining room table. 

"Welcome home, Adoni. Get your hands wash-" Mom scans my butchered limb.

I sense a lecture brewing, so I rush the staircase and find shelter in the bathroom. I do wash them, as instructed, but I also slather them with the weird herbal sauce my grandma keeps in thick mason jars below the sink. It reeks and looks like bile. I can already tell my hands are out of commission for the rest of the weekend, but it beats being dead.  
I pause for a few moments, catching my breath for the first time in hours. I gaze into the mirror, the harshness of the fluorescents bathing my hazelnut hair in violent amber. My eyes, normally a deep almond, glow unearthly. It suits the reflected me. I notice a deep cut at the hip of my jacket, in the shape of a wendigo's nail. The jacket puffed and fat with insulation, a vibrant ruby with synthetic tawny fur along the hood. That bitchass demon.

"Adam? You good?" Mason asks, knocking at the door. It shocks me enough to gasp. I shake my head quickly to push the "regain composure" button in my brain.

"Yeah. I went looking for the film roll." 

Mason pokes his head in to ensure his annoyed countenance is visible.

"The one that got stolen by the Thunderbird?? You idiot, it took the film from you for a reason!" 

"The "reason" was because it didn't want to be documented, like all other creatures." I retort, fiddling with the tear in my jacket. I have a nice sunflower patch in my drawer, it could fix it..

"Yeah, which is reason enough to leave it alone. Consent is important, even with the supernatural." He steps in further, forcing me to sit on our toilet. He used to be saddled with baby fat, but last summer he grew like a weed. Lanky and tall, the awkward kind where they haven't quite figured out to do with their limbs. His hair is strawberry blonde with eyes like mine, but his droop slightly and are always ringed with dark bags. His current (and only) style is stained white t-shirt and expensive basketball shorts. 

"Whatever." Mason has gotten really argumentative recently, so I decided to drop the subject. "I couldn't find it so I went to check the cave, you know, the one near the stream, to see if I could find a bluecap. But like, right after that, a wendigo must have caught my scent and attacked me."

I showed him my palms. He squints and nods his head.

"Got you pretty good."

"Yeah, stings like a bitch."

"Looks like it. Also, dad says dinner's ready, so come downstairs to eat."

"Okay. Don't eat all the potatoes like last time, stupid." I get up from my perch on the toilet and push past him down the hall. I hear him mumbling some insults at me, but I'm honestly too distracted to care. My hands sting really, really bad. When I reach the bottom floor I'm pleasantly surprised to see my grandparents sitting at the table. Typically, they eat separately from both us and each other, with grandpa in his study and grandma in her room. I flash them raised eyebrows and an exaggerated smile, the condescending kind a friend gives you when they win an argument.

"Look who finally decided to join us!" I pat grandpa on his shoulder, enjoying his scowl. "What's the occasion? Another rat infestation in the study?"

"Nope. Came out to see how my dear old grandson was doing after aggravating a wendigo." Mom and Dad's head turn at this. Grandpa smirks and continues. "Look at the poor boy's hand! Absolutely demolished!" With a sarcastic flourish, he displays my injuries by grabbing my wrists and shoving them up at my dad, who was setting down the cutlery. 

Dad wipes his hands on his man-apron in disbelief. "Christ! What happened?" 

"Touched it's heart, did ye?" Grandma piped up knowingly. "Hurt like 'ell?"

"Yeah." A bitter chuckle escapes my lips. "Hurt like Hell."

Grandpa eyes it uneasily. "Did ya spit on it, son?"

"Of course! Not my first rodeo!" My joke, like our off-brand soda, is flat. Time for a subject change. "Hey, did you guys hear about that uh.. news station from America? They're coming to town to investigate all the paranormal activity."

Mason nods enthusiastically. "My class was talking about that all day! Stacey said that Francis said they're really serious about it, bringing in like three trucks worth of recording supplies and a ton of interns."

"Wait." Grandpa asks. "Which one is Francis? The redheaded boy?"

"No, that's Romeo. Francis is black. Anyways-"

"Wait," Grandpa begins again. Mason holds back a sigh. "He's black? What do his parents do for a living?"

"I don't know grandpa. Can I finish the story please?" Mason asks impatiently. I laugh under my breath. At least I'm out of the hot seat.

After that, dinner is pretty normal. No fantastical event, or hushed whispers of the occult. Mason and Dad get into a five minute argument over if a kangaroo rat could classify as a man under Diogense's terms (Bipedal and featherless, plus weird little rodent hands). I wolf down the rest of my yams and crouch back up to my room. 

It's cramped and musty. The whole thing shudders and coughs dust when someone so much as walks by, and the thin walls are perpetually covered in a thin layer of condensation. The wood has burn holes and deep scratches along the floorboards, rumored to be caused by great Uncle Irwin when he lived here. He got kicked out shortly after he tried to smother the "Devil" out of me when I was a toddler. Sweet memories. I have a regular bed with a heavy quilt and wilted pillows with graying pillowcases. Thick metal crates are stacked like a filing cabinet full of my research and printed articles I found online from different mythological creatures. Beneath it is a large, stout ceramic vase tattooed in tribal imagery and full of various herbs, incense, and the strange potions grandma whips up when she's bored.   
I perch at the end of my mattress and retrieve the damaged flip phone from my pocket. My healing fingers messily find the gallery and I skim through what I managed to capture. Some creatures show up on camera, some don't; it's all dependent on how many dimensions its vessel exists on, since cameras can only process three dimensional imagery. I captured nothing but a blurry shot of a baseball sized eye with massive dragonfly wings lined with mammal-esque veins. A 6th dimensional, and surprisingly common. Their beings are made of biochemical compounds, and decompose a month or so after they've been killed. They actively avoid humans and domesticated animals, but will trail behind you if it senses intense fear. They're extremely curious, especially if you frequent areas of spawn. This one got a pretty good shot of it's irise, something I haven't gotten so up close. I make a mental note to print it out.   
I follow a slew of blackish-navy photographs of the sky, narrowing down the timestamps on the corner. It was 7:12 after I killed the wendigo. The newest photo was 6:20, and then abruptly stops. Weird. I didn't remember it taking 52 minutes to kill it. Maybe it opened a time rift to make the world around it go slower, so it would be harder for me to escape? But wendigos are crazy fast, and could have easily caught me even if I sprinted. I pull out a red pen from under my beanie and pull my latest spiral notebook from between my mattress and bedframe. My 72th edition, and already heavy with ink and dog-eared pages. I thumb to a clear page and write out the date and give a brief timeline of events. When I get to the wendigo, I give a synopsis of the experience and circle "time warp???" a few times for added dramatism. I draw a quick door at the bottom to tell future me the expedition was "closed for the day"- a code I came up with seven years ago and couldn't bring myself to give up. Every page has one, except for cases I couldn't fully remember. Occasional your memory cuts out during a supernatural encounter. No one's really figured out if it's a power some creatures possess or if it's just the brain's way of protecting its own sanity. Suddenly, a soft murmur comes from behind my door.   
I suppress a smile. "Come in Misty."

Misty's pretty striped face emerges, her lanky body close in tow. She blinks at me slowly, a particularly affectionate greeting seen exclusively by me.

"Merrow. Mrrp." She saunters over to me and immediately head bumps my shin.

"I hate monsters. I heard cats hate 'em more, though." I scratch her behind the ears. "Spirits especially." 

She flicks her tail into my ribcage in response. It makes a dull thump, reminding me morbidly of the wendigo's brittle innards. 

"I wonder if I've got PTSD from all this, Misty. I mean, I don't think it's normal for a teenage guy to keep cameras by his windows and barricade his door at night. Well, actually, maybe not that weird-" Misty nails me again with her tail, this time in my stomach. A very polite cat way of telling me to shut up. 

I take the hint and stare quietly at the walls. They're the color of spanish moss, interspersed with the shadows of paintings from years before. I wonder if Uncle Irwin hated the place as much as I do.   
Misty's comforting purr has sharpened slightly, then exponentially, booming and rusted. It sputters like a chainsaw roaring to life. The violent energy causes my beframe to squeal against the floorboards and picture frames to bounce back against the wall. Misty's purr-induced earthquake makes me mildly suspicious. 

"MISTY, WHAT?!?!" I cry over the noise. 

She limberly pushes herself me and to the floor, her gaze never leaving mine. As she does so, the body around her eyes morphs in a matter of seconds. She stands before me on her hindlegs and her outstretched paws are webbed with a thin flesh. Her mouth widens along her broadening face, her teeth twisting and expanding in her curling jaw. Misty's tongue is flat and thicker, like a person's. Her striped fur takes on a disorienting glow. 

"Boy!" Misty snaps. In English. Accurately enunciated. "You've meddled with the Forest for the last time!"

"..What."

"What?!" She repeats mockingly. "Like you don't know, going out into the forest and doing unspeakable things to foriegn creatures! You really give humans a bad reputation." She shakes her grossly large cat head at me. "I really didn't want to get involved, but killing a being's corporeal form is TOO far!"

My blank stare responds for me. My cat is speaking to me. She sounds like an annoyed 20-something caisher who caught me shoplifting. 

"Yes, I'm a bakeneko. If you were wondering. I have been since my second-to-last birthday. We transform with age, you know."

"Nope, I-I don't know. I..." my voice cuts out. I cough and try a deep breath. "How.. did you know I killed the Wendigo?"

Her amber eyes flash indigniantly. "I heard you talking about it, obviously! Don't pretend you were just embellishing the story either, because your hand is proof, Adoni!" 

I glance unseeingly back at the now bubbling scar, grandma's herbal glue making quick work of sealing the skin. 

"Oh. Misty heard me talking about what happened. Of course she did." 

The rage in her face softens somewhat. "This must be pretty scary right now, but if I had let your little misadventures continue..." She trails off. The room goes silent, short for some distant cicadas singing insolently for a mate. 

I force myself to look back at her. Face the danger like I always do. I swallow hard. "How do you plan to stop me, Misty?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is like disproportionately long compared to the first one, I know!! I hope it isn't too strange!! Feeback is super appreciated, because I have no idea what I'm doing lol.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on this site, and the second time I've really uploaded on a major platform! If I did anything wrong suggestions and criticism is more than welcome! Also, comments would be really cool too. :")


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